


On the Bus to Oxford (London)

by TheUltracheese



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUltracheese/pseuds/TheUltracheese
Summary: Our favorite duo devise their plan. Crowley’s POV.protective!crowleymischievous!aziraphale





	On the Bus to Oxford (London)

Aziraphale pivoted into a row unexpectedly early, taking the seat next to Crowley. The demon was surprised, but tried not to show it. For decades now, the two otherworldly beings had ridden the various busses of London in neighboring rows, whispering at each other over the backs of seats. Two spies on opposite sides of the longest Cold War the world would ever see. They had only ever sat next to each other on park benches, and even then they had scrupulously maintained a casual distance between them, suggesting that they were not in fact there together and any third party could easily come up and sit between them (no one ever did).

They rode in silence shoulder-to-shoulder for some time. Eventually, Aziraphale withdrew the scrap of Agnes’ last prophecy from his pocket and stared at it. The bus lumbered past the Oxford stop and continued on to London, without comment.

“Choose your faces wisely,” the angel muttered. “Faces... choose your faces...”

Crowley pinched the narrow bridge of his nose, suppressing irritation. Aziraphale could be so smart, yet here he was, continuing to puzzle over the obvious. “It’s what I’ve been saying all along, angel. We’re on our own side here on out.” Had Aziraphale still not fully apprehended the consequences of the day? He turned to his friend and spoke with as much gentleness as he could muster, knowing his next words would hurt the poor fellow. “I won’t be welcomed back to hell any more than you’ll be welcome in heaven.”

Aziraphale shifted in his seat to face Crowley. “Faces!” he cried out, seemingly oblivious to what the demon sitting next to him has just said. “Oh, Crowley; she meant it literally. My dear boy, you’re right; we have upended their eschatology, and they’re not going to just let it go. They see us as traitors to our respective sides now, and they will come to punish us as traitors.”

Crowley just stared, trying to ignore the knee now pressed against his own. While he was relieved Aziraphale finally seemed to grasp the trouble they were in, exuberance seemed an odd emotional response.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” he drawled.

“Don’t you see? Think back to Paris, Crowley. The guillotine chopped off all heads, evil and good. That’s a human invention, right there; it has a sort of... ruthless equanimity. But angels and demons are all about _sides_. Angels will execute a fellow angel who commits treason against heaven as only an angel could be punished.”

Crowley swallowed. “Hellfire?”

“Precisely, my good friend!” Aziraphale was beaming. Crowley, however, felt his chest seize up with panic. Aziraphale quickly placed a steadying hand on the demon’s chest.

“But it would be no bother at all,” Aziraphale continued, smiling, “if my good friend and demon were there in my place.” Crowley realized only then that he had been inching up from his chair, as if to run or fight or both. He sunk back down, comprehension finally clicking into place, and Aziraphale hastily removed his hand from Crowley’s chest.

“Riiight. So, they’ll punish you with hellfire, and me...”

“With holy water, correct. You’ve shown them, after all, just how horrible its effects are on a demon.” Aziraphale beamed. “And yet, I can go so far as to drink the stuff and be perfectly fine! Though it does taste a bit of toothpaste.” The last bit was said to quietly himself, with a twinge of embarrassment.

Crowley took in the full measure of this strange creature, all cream and gold and soft curls. Even his current smile, prickly as it was with rebellion, had a beatific quality to it.

“I can’t ask you to go to hell for me.”

“And why not?”

“It’s hell, Aziraphale. I’ve been to heaven. I remember what it’s like. You have no idea what awaits in hell.”

“I’m the most well-read angel there is, and I’ve put up with you for millennia. I’ve a fair idea of what hell is like.”

“It’s not a fair trade, Aziraphale!”

“Pish posh. You’re the one who’s going to have to keep quiet while walking across endless stretches of consecrated ground. It will be unpleasant for the both of us.” He paused. “But not, unlike the alternative, fatal.”

Crowley imagined the angel being greeted by Beelzebub in the moist, fetid corners of hell. That was the weird thing about hell; despite all the fires, it was somehow endlessly damp. He spoke through an unbearable tightness in his throat. “And if they plunge you into a pit of boiling sulfur?”

“But why would they? That’s just fun in the sun for your lot. No, they want to eliminate us. And they want it to be memorable. For both our sides, that means grandiose and symbolic.” Aziraphale’s smile dimmed as he took in the misery Crowley knew to be etched all over his features. “I’m... truly touched that you should be so concerned for me, my dear boy. But I’m afraid it’s the only way.”

Aziraphale extended a hand.

“Com’on, now.”

Crowley didn’t take it.

“There’s no other passengers left on the bus. The driver is occupied with the road. It’s now or never.”

“If this goes wrong, angel, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Aziraphale sighed, and Crowley noted a twinge of sadness and irritation in his voice. “Please stop calling me that. I don’t know what I am anymore, but as far as heaven’s concerned, I’m clearly persona non grata.”

“Heaven be damned. You’re as angel as it gets, Principality Aziraphale.”

Crowley saw red patches form on Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Aziraphale muttered. “Let’s get this over with. I suspect I’m going to like wearing your clothes even less than I will like hell.”

One of Crowley’s eyebrows arched up, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You may be surprised. Snakeskin is very soft around the neck.”

“Oh do shut up and take my hand,” huffed Aziraphale.

Crowley took the angel’s hand. The transformation happened in the blink of an eye.

“Dear Lord,” cried the one who looked like Crowley but was sitting where Aziraphale had been just a moment before. He tugged uncomfortably at the outsides of his thighs. “No wonder you can’t think straight; these pants must be cutting off all the circulation to your brain.”

The one who looked like Aziraphale didn’t look up. “You’ve never complained before,” he muttered distractedly, far more intrigued by exploring his many small pockets and patting down his waistcoat. “That’s funny, you never mentioned before how comfy you are. It’s awfully pleasant in here, for an unblemished soul.”

“DO shut up, Crowley.”


End file.
